


Chasing Sunsets

by iammisscullen



Category: One Direction
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bartender!Zayn, Drama, Fluff, M/M, UniStudent!Zayn, rich!Harry, zarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4098391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammisscullen/pseuds/iammisscullen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry likes to travel -- loves it that he doesn't stay at the same place for a long time. He moves and moves and moves till his heart bump unto someone that stills him.</p>
<p>Or an AU where Harry travels and tells all about his adventures to the gorgeous bartender, Zayn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Sunsets

**Author's Note:**

> While I procrastinate over my Zarry Fic Exchange, here's something I wrote that sprouted from all the sunsets that I've witnessed on my constant traveling for April and May. Once again, massive massive thanks to my lovely beta [slytherakin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherakin/works). IDK what I've done without her wisdom and awesome editing skills!  
> So hope you enjoy.
> 
> P.S.  
> I'm a pretentious little shit so feel free to puke at the fun facts. LOL!

//

_I’ve had so many knives stuck into me,_

_when they hand me a flower_

_I can’t quite make out what it is._

_It takes time._

**-Charles Bukowski**

//

******

There’s a splash of water, followed by an audible gasps from the people nearby. And all Harry can do, as he cleans his face with a napkin, is smile incredulously – half amuse, half annoyed because he’s wearing his favourite silver Lanvin suit.

‘You’re such an asshole,’ Jessica screams as she stands up and grabs her Prada handbag which Harry gave to her last week. Her American accent lingers as she leaves the premises.

Harry shouldn’t have met her in Milton Court’s Residents Bar. He should have done this inside his penthouse and not here – out in the public. But he can only imagine the damage she’ll do to him – or to his lovely suite – if he had broken up with her in his private quarters. That lovely vase from Italy would have been gone by now, shattered to the floor in a thousand pieces.

So maybe, he did the right thing.

He rises up from his seat, leaving a few notes on top of the table to pay for their wine. He’s too lazy to wait for his credit card when he pays. He goes straight to the lift, conscious of the whispers that’s starting to blossom behind his back.

He can’t clearly tell what stories they’re weaving about him this time. But he knows pretty well that it’ll go along with the lines: _heartbreaker twat_ , _arrogant rich bastard_ , _tosser Styles_ , _Harry the berk_ – as if he gives a fuck.

**

He tells himself that he doesn’t care; he won’t let what people say to him get under his skin because he knows himself better than anyone else. If you ask him, he’s going to say that he’s a good person. Evidence of that are the charities he supported to help children and animals.

But do people remember the hospital wing he donated to St. Bart’s last year as an extension of the paediatric ward? Hell, they completely forgot that he went to Africa last month to help build schools for the children of Ghana. And they completely ignored that last week he went to America to receive his Humanitarian award from UNICEF _._ Because all they see is who’s he sleeping with, his blunt attitude towards other people, the fallout of his business and career, and other shit that they keep on holding against him.

Harry doesn’t focus on those because he believes that he will never be able to convince _every_ one. People will always choose to see what they want to. He doesn’t have the power to control that anymore. So, fuck it! Fuck everyone!

There’s a beep and he reaches for his phone on his bedside table. It’s a text from Cynthia – his publicist slash secretary – telling him that his break-up with Jessica made it to TMZ.

He snorts and closes his phone. It’s not like it’s new. And for sure _The Sun_ or _The Mail_ will have it on their front pages. He’s definitely too charitable, giving them sales like that.

He knows he shouldn’t feel anything because it’s stupid to let these petty things disturb him. But it does get to him; the bricks they throw at him can build castles. Maybe people do throw rocks at shiny things but they forget that he’s not a thing – he’s a person with feelings and an overused, vulnerable heart.

So, Harry does what he does best when feels boxed with all the issues thrown his way. He leaves.

**

It’s almost one in the morning on a Monday night. The bar is almost empty – except for him, the gorgeous bartender, and Julio, the janitor who’s mopping the floor at the moment and humming along to some song in Spanish.

Harry hates Mondays. Work always starts at Mondays. And Mondays are so far from Fridays, yet Fridays are so close to Mondays.

It doesn’t make so much sense, does it? But one thing is for sure, Harry hates Mondays, and the rest of the weekdays.

He spent the rest of his weekends in Blanch House in Brighton because he’s friends with the owners, Chris and Amanda Blanch. It’s a hotel in Atlingworth Street that he found 5 years ago while in Brighton with his mum. Ever since he needed the sea and some sunshine – when he’s too lazy to go the Bahamas or Greece – he goes there to relax.

Yes, Brighton might be a bad idea for relaxing because of the growing number of tourist coming in. But as much as Harry denies it, he can’t help but crawl into a place where the crowd goes because he doesn’t want to feel alone. It doesn’t help him of course because he still feels all alone even with all the people careening around him.

He lets out a deep sigh and looks into the condensed vapour outside his glass of Jack. The ice has long melted and the flavour of the rum isn’t as strong as before – the water tamed it.

‘It’s almost closing time, sir,’ says the bartender, wiping the glasses on the counter.

Harry looks at him; long lashes, sexy lips, sharp cheekbones, olive skin, hazel eyes, midnight black hair. It sums up beautiful.

‘Don’t worry,’ Harry begins, ‘I live here.’ The bartender raises an eyebrow at him and Harry still can’t help but wonder why the bloke needs such long lashes. What does he do with them? Hang curtains? ‘I live in the southern penthouse.’

‘Okay.’ He nods in understanding. ‘But sir, closing time is closing time.’

Harry almost chokes on his drink. Why is this silly bartender pressuring him? And he’s just about to tell the bartender that he can own the whole tower if he wants too but the man is suddenly attending to Andrew, one of Harry’s favourite concierges.

Despite the alcohol’s power that slurred Harry’s better judgement, he can tell that Andrew is upset about something, telling a story to the bartender with small hand gestures for emphasis. But it all fits together when the bartender inconspicuously hands over to Andrew a few notes. And Harry did not miss how the concierge’s face lights up with joy and relief, like a lost man at sea finding land.

Andrew clasps a hand on the bartender’s shoulder as he thanks him nonstop, then he leaves after a few minutes of thanking the other man again.

The bartender is smiling too. It’s bright, like he swallowed the sun.

Harry just didn’t see the radiant smile, but the joy in the man’s eyes as he helped his fellow. There’s a few of that sparks in people’s eyes nowadays that Harry wants to paint it somewhere so others can see it too. Maybe then, they will also be inspired to do the same.

The bartender suddenly notices that Harry is still there, it must have been because Harry is staring too much. Isn’t that what always happen? When you stare at someone for so long they can actually feel it?

‘Closing time, sir,’ he reminds Harry, putting the last glass on the counter and wiping his hands with the white flannel. His eyes are a bit sharp. He looks annoyed.

The fondness diminishes and Harry’s back into being menacing. He likes to irritate people as some sort of hobby sometimes.

‘Have you ever been to Brighton?’ Harry asks and smiles angelically just to spite the gorgeous bartender. And it’s music to his ears when the man groans in frustration.

**

‘So,’ he stirs the rum inside his glass, hearing the quiet clatter of the ice as it hits the crystal beaker, ‘I went to Walham Forest today.’

It’s one in the morning of a Monday and Harry’s getting himself plastered. Not ideal but it’s better than staying in his flat and stopping himself from going into Twitter to look at the negative feedback on him about his current fling, a DJ from a little pub in Soho. They met twice, he fucked him five times and – for the life of him – can’t remember the bloke’s name. Something with an A and ends with a Y.

Zayn, the gorgeous bartender from MC’s bar, continues to wipe the glasses and nods. It encourages Harry to go on with his story. He also tries to constantly wet his lips that it’s distracting Harry from his story.

‘I saw container houses there,’ he says, looking away from Zayn because it’s painful to see the boy lick his lips without volunteering to keep them hydrated with his own tongue. ‘It’s comfy.’

‘Yeah?’ Zayn looks over at Harry, hand with a dish cloth and drying another glass. He licks his lips again.

Harry needs to stop staring so he centres on important matters instead.

Everything in Harry’s life is a blur or a dead end, there is no inbetween. The fleeting moments are those spent in a drug-induced-like high that will make him feel as if he’s going to burst like a firework, but after the eruption and the bang, he’s left with an empty heart. An emptiness that’s so heavy it tires his bones.

The dead end ones are those occasions when he’s so numb all over that he has to put his hand above his heart just to check if it’s still beating inside his chest. These are the days when he doesn’t want to leave his bed or talk to anyone – not even his mum. There’s an emptiness in his marrows that makes him float till his feet can’t find solid ground. And at times like these that he thinks he’s drifting somewhere no one will be able to find him, moving into the depths of oblivion.

He doesn’t know why Zayn even listens to him, but he figures that Zayn’s a good person – the kind that puts others first before himself, a person who buys an ice cream for a kid if they dropped it on the pavement.

Because in reality, when Harry hangs out with Zayn, he doesn’t feel like the moment is another forgotten memory, or the pull of nothingness. It’s a steady _now_ with a light weight that settles in his bones, and guides his heartbeat to a proper rhythm.

‘Yeah.’ He sips from his rum and suddenly notices that he’s seating near to where Zayn is working. Not that it matters, right? ‘It’s only 75 pounds a week.’ He stirs his glass again, not entirely sure how he and Zayn got into this same page where they can talk about what happened with their day. Mostly, it’s just Harry sharing his passed and future agendas while Zayn drops a few comments about one of the customers in the bar that piques him. ‘Can you believe that?’

Zayn doesn’t say anything and not because he doesn’t want to listen anymore or has not paid attention to Harry. He doesn’t speak much, Harry knows that. With Zayn, words aren’t needed to make Harry feel like he can exist; more often, the quiet hums and simple nods from Zayn are enough to make Harry feel that he’s not alone.

‘With 75 pounds, you get to have a house for a week,’ he says with awe. ‘It has a loo, a kitchenette, a bed, and a cabled telly.’ He takes another sip. ‘Do you think it has Netflix?’

Zayn’s looking at him, a smile on the lad’s lips. Ah! Those lips again. ‘Maybe.’

‘75 pounds,’ he repeats with disbelief and slightly mortified by the way he’s observing Zayn’s lips. It’s not normal. ‘75 pounds!’

‘A week,’ Zayn supplies, voice mocking like a scandalised rich housewife who found out that her mate won’t be serving caviar at her dinner party.

Harry wanted to ask why is Zayn so gorgeous. Like why? But that’d be impolite. That’s like asking why people are white or black or yellow or tan.

‘I know.’ He runs a hand through his hair, a little embarrass – he doesn’t want to admit that 30 percent of it is from thoughts about Zayn. ‘And here I was, thinking of getting a house in Notting Hill or Primrose.’ He looks at the table. ‘I may have to spend at least 15 million just because I wanted a back garden.’ He smiles bitterly.

Zayn just shrugs. ‘The back garden is persuasive enough.’

Harry laughs. It sounds too hollow, forced. ‘Tell me about it,’ he says wryly. ‘15 million for a garden of strawberries.’

‘Those berries better be sold in gold,’ Zayn teases, lips curving up into a smile that Harry can’t name.

And Harry doesn’t have a comeback with that because he feels awful for spending a huge amount of money on a house he won’t stay in very much, when most people in London are barely making both ends meet. He’s only comfort is the fact that Zayn doesn’t judge him. He’s given enough hasn’t he? This time, it’s his turn to give himself his due.

So, even when Harry feels like he’s a horrible person for his extreme indulgence, there’s a blanket of assurance that covers him because Zayn makes him think it’s not bad to love yourself sometimes, that you don’t have to tear yourself apart just to keep others whole.

Because even how often Harry feeds himself with the mantra _Don’t give a fuck_ , he often does give a fuck. Maybe this time, he won’t mind giving a fuck because it’s Zayn.

Yeah, he’ll make an exception for Zayn. Now, that he thinks about it, maybe almost _every_ one should make an exception for Zayn. There should be a law about it. He’ll sure to suggest to the Prime Minister next time he gets invited for dinner.

‘Nice talking to you, Zed,’ he says as he rises up from his chair.

‘Anytime, sir.’

‘Harry,’ he corrects. He sees the surprise in Zayn’s face. ‘You can call me that since we’re mates now, aren’t we?’ He winks.

Zayn doesn’t reply.

‘Night, Zayn.’

It really is good to have someone to talk to from time to time. There’s a relief settling inside him that puts his bones back in place, that plants his heart in his chest; his lungs expands normally as well. Now, that’s something.

**

‘Remember when I told you about the time I met Peter Brant?’ There’s another glass of Jack in his hand; he’s sitting more closely to the place where Zayn usually wipes the glasses he washes.

Zayn just nods and hums as if he knows who even is Peter Brant, but Harry had supplied him the story of meeting Peter and his wife over dinner in their Connecticut estate last summer. It’s another crawl-story – the kind that’s more likely to be an example if turtles ever races – that only Harry can master.

‘Well,’ he begins, leaning over the counter closely like what he’s about to share is top secret, ‘I was very intrigued with the Puppy they have.’

‘What sort of dog was it?’

Harry shakes his head dramatically slow, like he’s trying to tell an American that a kettle is all one needs to survive in life. Well, a kettle and tea. ‘Zayn, Zayn, Zayn.’ He smiles amusedly. ‘Puppy is a dog. But not alive.’

‘Okay.’

‘Puppy is a huge sculpture of a dog,’ Harry explains. ‘He’s actually made of plants. And he’s the reason why I went to Spain two days ago.’

‘You were in Spain?’

Harry nods. ‘I just got back this afternoon, actually.’ He sips his drink. ‘And you won’t believe what I learned about Puppy’s history.’

‘Yeah?’ There’s a smile at Zayn’s lips – a sweet sweet smile – and Harry wants to taste it, wants to know if it’ll be like pink candy floss.

Harry shakes his head, shrugging the thought before he does something like _really_ kiss Zayn. So he moves on and goes with his narration, ‘It involves grenades and breach of security…’

**

When Harry goes home from his trips or holidays, Zayn’s the first person he tells all about the things he learned, the people he met, the food he has tasted, the bad TV he watched as he waits for his room service, the flowers they give him at events that he can’t even name, the colour of the sky at dawn or twilight or night-time. And that’s how it is often; Harry tells a story about his latest adventures and Zayn listens. That’s just how things go between them; that’s how Harry wants it to be.

It’s nice to have a constant thing in his life of non-stop plot twists. He found a steady ground that he can stand on without worrying of falling down or flying off into oblivion. It’s great.

**

_‘Hello?’_

Harry almost wants to say that Zayn’s _hello_ sounded like a croak, but it’d be the sexiest croak he has ever heard. So he simply says, ‘Hello to you, too, Malik.’

_‘Harry?’_ Zayn yawns.

‘No. This is Batman,’ he jokes, fixing the lapel of his navy blue Saint Laurent suit.

There’s another yawn at the other end of the line and Zayn chips sleepily, _‘Do you even know what time it is?’_

‘7pm,’ Harry answers after glancing down on his gold Rolex, sitting on his wrist.

Zayn groans on the other end; Harry hears a shuffling of sheets or something. _‘In whatever planet you are maybe.’_ Harry can feel Zayn pouting or frowning. _‘But,’_ there’s a pause, _‘unfortunately, in the UK, it’s 3 in the morning.’_ Another shifting on Zayn’s end.

           

Harry forgets the time difference, too excited for the _World of Children Award_ dinner celebration that is happening later.

‘M’sorry, Zed.’ He must rein his shit sometimes.

_‘What’s up, anyways?’_ Zayn inquires, breathing slowly on his receiver and Harry can picture him right now – probably shirtless in his bed, duvet pooling his torso and thighs and legs, but with his toes peeking out of the blanket because he doesn’t like his feet to be touched at night.

‘I’m really sorry,’ he says instead because he didn’t mean to trouble Zayn.

_‘S’okay, Hazza,’_ Zayn assures him, shifting on his bed once again.

Maybe it’s the nickname, or the fact that Zayn’s not telling Harry off for waking him at 3 in the morning, but there’s a burn that licks at Harry’s heart and skin – prickles him to be next to Zayn at the moment so he can see that look that Zayn only reserved just for him when he’s talking; the stare that makes Harry feel like he’s techno colour, despite the shades of grey in his life.

_‘Where are you exactly?’_

‘LA.’ He moves to the mirror.

_‘Don’t tell me you’re auditioning to be the next Spiderman?’_ He laughs.

Harry smiles. ‘I don’t think the whole spandex thing is for me.’

_‘You’ll look good at anything, babe.’_ And Harry’s heart skips a beat. _‘I mean,’_ Zayn clears his throat.

There’s a pause. And Harry uses that break to restart his heart. This is new.

Zayn clears his throat again. _‘Anyway_. _’_ Harry can picture him blushing. _‘Fight Dylan O’Brien for the role, yeah? But, if you get up against Andrew, please withdraw immediately.’_ Harry can hear his smile over the phone and it makes him smile as well. _‘And if the whole Hollywood thing doesn’t work out, Milton Court is willing to put up a stage for you to act at in the Residents Bar yeah?’_

There’s that smile in Zayn’s voice again that Harry picks up. It’s weird. It’s new for Harry to be able to tell, especially if it’s from poker face Zayn Malik.

‘Make sure to put up fairy lights, yeah?’

_‘Maybe some balloons too.’_

The smile is thousand of miles away, but it reaches the depth of Harry’s heart – etches a smile on his lips and drops a twinkling starlight in his eyes. He looks at himself at the mirror and he likes what he sees. There’s a glow in his eyes that he can’t look away because, since when did the stars reside behind them to make them shine like that?

He’s radiating sunshine. And he can’t help but say, ‘I wish you were here.’

**

Harry’s almost running as he heads to the Resident Bar. He felt like flying ever since his chauffer, William, opened the car door for him to climb off. He’s so excited that the air in his lungs can’t keep up with his heartbeat.

When he gets to the bar, dimly lit like always in the late night, he immediately goes to the counter where he knows Zayn will be bartending and making colourful drinks to people. He already feels drunk and light even without the alcohol that he’ll probably consume later just so he can stay in the bar.

‘Zayn, you should try going to French Polynesia,’ Harry says, remembering – the hot rays of the sun on his back, the swimming with the dolphins, the relaxing tropical views; but not missing it at all because his heart had not felt this calm when he was in the tropics.

He’s tanner than he was when he went to Brighton months ago. He decided to go on a holiday in the Pacific just because he can. It wasn’t much of a holiday since he spent half of the time fighting the urge to call Zayn and tell him all about the things he saw, the things he learned, and the wonderful people he had met. He didn’t though because he doesn’t want to disturb Zayn, especially with the time zone being such an arse.

Zayn looks startled at first but seeing that the new comer is only Harry, he rolls his eyes on him. ‘I can’t believe you just dropped the F word on me.’ He gazes at the flushed looking Harry Styles. ‘You look like a mess.’

‘A hot mess,’ Harry counters and winks wantonly at Zayn. He tries to tame his hair with his fingers, not helping very much from the tangles that had formed while he had slept on the aeroplane, and he had forgotten to mend it on the way as well. ‘Anyway, get off my hair, you racist,’ Harry counters, mocking a look of grimace. ‘I went straight here from the airport to tell you about the things I’ve learned.’

He hopes it sounded light, like it isn’t obvious that he almost cried at the airline managers to give him the last ticket to London, he didn’t care that it was economy – though, him being Harry Styles, he managed to snatch a first class seating – as long as it takes him home. Two days all by himself in the Pacific made him sad, missing the late night talks with Zayn about shit he can’t even remember but the rock solid tranquillity in his heart reminds him that those chit chats are precious as gold.

Zayn continues on cleaning up. The night had been slow – slower than the regular ones – so he has nothing to do since 10pm. Only Harry stayed for a chat – long and snail slow chat – and whiskey.

‘It’s really petty that we keep holding grudges against the French,’ Harry says. ‘I don’t think being vindictive will help us anyway. Then, there’s the whole feminism campaign for equality of everyone and yet, here you are being prejudice of the French.’

Zayn actually stops cleaning the counter and looks at Harry like he’s explaining why Hilary Clinton’s feminism won’t make her a good president.

‘What?’

‘I can’t believe you think feminism will save you from your daft points about the French,’ Zayn answers.

Harry raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m just saying that this whole don’t-like-the-French thing is racist. And we don’t acknowledge racism in feminism.’

Zayn sighs. ‘Fine.’ He continues his work. ‘Just don’t scream this ideal on drunk Brits and you may have to have your funeral on a pyre earlier than expected.’

Harry laughs, big and loud. ‘Oh my god,’ he says with disbelief. ‘This is not the Medieval Ages, Zayn.’ He sips from his glass. ‘People don’t put heads on spikes anymore when they’re mad at one another.’

‘They do worse,’ Zayn replies.

Then saunters in Joan, one of Harry’s longest friends. She’s Indonesian but born and raised in Bath; went to London to chase after her dream as a writer. He met her during one summer in Bath when his mum rented Paradise House to host some afternoon tea party for her book club.

Harry stands up to greet her and helps her up on the high chair by the bar after putting a kiss on both of her cheeks.

‘Don’t you have a company to run, Styles?’ she says as a way of greeting. She puts one leg over the other, olive skin peeking under the slit of her long summer skirt; her bag on the counter beside her overused brown moleskin.

‘Really?’ he says because he can’t believe she’s starting up the conversation like this. But it’s not like this is new. ‘I do,’ he adds with a shrug like it’s nothing, like the lives of the thousands working under him doesn’t motivate him to not go into bankruptcy. But Harry’s more interested that the local people put bougainvillea petals on the beds in the rooms rather than roses.

Sometimes, this is what Harry misses – the simplicity. Not putting rose petals – as any typical hotel will do – but tropical flowers that he had never heard of.

‘What have you been doing these past few days anyway?’ She asks, writing on her tattered moleskin. She always prefers to write than type on her Mac; says it makes her Jane Austen like.

It’s not like Harry has to answer because according to the polls, when women ask you a question, most of the time they already know the answer to it. So he keeps his mouth shut.

‘I heard from Shara that you’ll be coming over to Venice next week.’ She closes her moleskin and looks at him in that judgemental way she does when she thinks Harry’s being stupid.

‘Yes. I’m planning on donating gondola to the 10 most outstanding gondoliers in Venice,’ he says. She glares at him. ‘What is wrong with that?’

She runs a hand through her hair and pulls at the top roots a bit. She’s frustrated, trying to find the less hurting answer for Harry to digest. ‘Nothing,’ she answers, not convincingly.

But Harry can feel the _but_ coming up.

‘But,’ she begins, ‘it’s just that you never settle.’

Harry pouts, like a little kid forbidden to have some ice cream before dinner. ‘I do settle,’ he defends. ‘Haven’t you heard that I’m looking at houses in Kensington? And I’ve been coming back into my flat often these past couple of weeks.’

Joan just rolls her eyes at him, definitely not believing him.

‘Ask Zayn,’ he says, definitely not forgetting that the other bloke is there but politely distanced himself to give them both privacy.

Zayn comes back at their end of the counter and smiles at them both. ‘Yes, sir?’

Harry pouts again. ‘Harry,’ he corrects. ‘The formality is painful to my ears.’

‘Diva,’ Joan comments. She turns to Zayn, ‘Hello, gorgeous.’ She smiles and bats her lashes on him.

Zayn blushes with a shy smile.

‘Stop that,’ Harry tells her. ‘You’re making him uncomfortable.’

She narrows her eyes on Harry. ‘I’m more likely to be making _you_ uncomfortable.’

Harry gasps like he’s scandalised. ‘I’m very comfortable.’

‘Right,’ she says sarcastically.

Zayn clears his throat to get both of their attention as they seemed to have started a glaring game.

‘Zed,’ Harry says like he just remembered the man’s existence.

Zayn’s smile is tight, like he’s putting it on because that’s what employees should do; they should always have a smile on their lips even if they don’t feel like smiling.

‘I was just telling Joan here, that I have settled down,’ he explains. ‘And by that, I want you to tell her – inform her – that I, Harry Edward Styles, have been in Milton Court so often that I am friends with my floormates.’

**

‘Harry,’ Emma whines, leaning closely to Harry that he can feel her ragged breath on his exposed neck and chest.

They’d been kissing since they arrived and had been drinking on the way to his unit, so it’s not news that he feels hot all over. He’s pretty sure they both look flushed, with messy hairs and swollen lips to tag along.

The doorbell rings and it’s irritating. It’s fucking one in the morning, who could be visiting him at this hour? No one knows he’s going back from Thailand today, except Joan because he asked her to drop the script for that movie he wanted to produce for next summer.

‘Wait,’ he says, putting some space between them. He’s holding her by the shoulder because she’s royally drunk and can’t even manage to stand on her own.

_DING DONG!_ He suddenly regrets choosing that sound. And he’s also practising a long telling off to Joan for badgering at such a late hour. She needs to deliver the script but not necessarily at the moment when he can’t even feel his legs and body from exhaustion.

‘Wait,’ he screams both at the person at the door and at Emma, who’s beginning to palm his dick in his tight black jeans. He gently pushes her to the white couch and heads to the door.

There’s another ring, followed by a knock. He hears the knock because he’s by the door now. He opens his mouth as he opens the door widely to make a dramatic gesture of annoyance to Joan. But instead of his speech, Harry lost his words as his jaw drops in surprise.

‘Sorry to bother you so late,’ Zayn says meekly, flushing from embarrassment.

Harry still can’t form the 26 letters into useful words to help him.

Zayn looks around him nervously like he’s waiting for someone to arrest him for ruining the peace of Harry Styles. ‘I was just…’ He stammers of course. He carefully – with trembling fingers – pulls out a thick stack of paper from his brown messenger bag. ‘Ms. Joan said to give this to you as soon as you arrive. And I kind of missed you when you entre and when you took the lift so that’s why –’

‘Harry,’ Emma moans from the inside of Harry’s home that cuts off Zayn midsentence.

Harry’s eyes are big and wild like a deer caught on the headlights. Zayn is the same but with something different that Harry can’t name.

‘Harry,’ Emma calls again, giggling sexily like she did when Harry dipped his tongue into her mouth when they were at the back of Harry’s Volvo. ‘Hurry up or I’ll start without you.’ She giggles again.

Harry’s mouth open like he’s about to explain, but then closes it again because this is the part of him that he had shut off for a long time. He doesn’t comment on anything anymore or defend himself or explain because it never works.

Zayn looks away immediately like he’s been burned by staring into Harry and into the parts of the man’s flat that he can view from the opened door. He swallows and wets his lips. ‘I think, I should go,’ he says bluntly and hands Harry the manila envelop without looking into Harry.

So before Harry can stop him, Zayn walks away, not even waiting for the lift but heading to the Exit staircase like he can’t stand to be on the same floor as Harry. Zayn leaves immediately as if the mere sight of Harry is going to make him sick. Something in Harry feels like he’s been drop from an aeroplane without a parachute to save his life – stomach twisting and crawling up his throat at the height.

**

Harry felt like eating Maltesers so here he is at Tesco, buying them like it’s Valentine’s Day. He could pass by the hospital later and drop the rest of it there because there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to finish a 100 little bags of chocolates.

He’s whistling quietly to Beyoncé’s _Sweet Dreams_ when he hears a familiar voice. The one that had kept him awake for several nights, weaving a sentence he longs to forget. It still stabs him like alcohol in the wound.

‘I can’t go this weekend Matt,’ the voice says. ‘I have to finish my art project and some essay shit about John Green’s pretentious arse.’ A pause and a dry laughter. ‘Blame my thick as two short planks professor for romanticising _The Fault in Our Stars_ and _Paper Towns_ too much. The barmy lady wants us to watch the upcoming movie this June and pass another paper by the first week of summer.’

Harry looks back and definitely not making a mistake when he sees Zayn talking on the phone, two persons behind him from the queue. His heart stops for a second and takes in the sight of Zayn outside of his usual uniform. Zayn’s wearing a black hoodie and dark skinny jeans, one hand holding a red basket full of groceries and the other a mobile phone.

How many days since he hasn’t seen Zayn? The thirst of talking to him is like a rotting wound on his skin that he keeps on scratching because that’s all he can do, that’s all he’s brave to do.

The next night after _the incident_ , Harry goes back to the bar to talk to Zayn, explain to him. It’s confusing how his bones itches to make Zayn understand about the situation because there’s nothing holding them both in connection except for those late night chit chats. That’s it.

It’s not like they’re dating and Zayn caught him cheating. They have not gone on a date once so it’s not even a fling. There’s no title to them both.

So, why does Harry feels like he needs to do something? He needs to make it right, to take that hurt look on Zayn’s face – the one that could only be analogue with the sun missing from the sky. Harry needs to put the sun back into the sky, inside Zayn’s eyes.

But Harry didn’t find Zayn that night, or the next night after that, or the one after that. He asked Jonathan, the one on shift that night, what happened to Zayn or when is he coming back. The poor bloke doesn’t know.

One week of absence is when Harry realised that Zayn won’t be coming back after handing the script to Harry that unceremonious night when the bridges they both created together got burned down. The routines changed and it’s fucking annoying because Harry liked his settlement for once. Now he has to pack up his shit and move on and on and on and on. He doesn’t see the end of it, peaceful molecules in his body protesting against the changes he has yet to continue.

Maybe this is what it feels like for a boat to lose its harbour, for a child to lose his home. The earth is vast, the plains are open, but Harry can’t even find a set of land to stand in and feel like he has a home.

And now, he sees him. Zayn is so close, so fucking close that he can reach out – despite the two people between them – and he’ll probably touch the tip of Zayn’s nose. God, did he miss Zayn’s voice, the one that seems to be coated with honey and sugar and care.

‘Maybe, I’ll get Waliyha to write me a paper about _Paper Towns_ about how Margo was anti-letter capitalist.’ Zayn laughs and Harry continues to stare dumbly, fucking missing the sound of Zayn’s laughter – closely tuned to soft wind chimes. ‘I love the whole Black Santa thing, to be honest. He’s like my only favourite character in the book. Q is a fucking idiot for chasing over that Margo lass.’

And maybe Harry’s been staring too long because Zayn looks up, that kind of consciousness you have when you feel like someone’s looking at you. Their eyes meet; both wide eyes.

One of Harry’s secrets in life is that when in times of trouble or confusion, the best thing to do is to smile. So he does, bright and big. It etches into his face like a sword cut – painful.

Zayn looks away saying a low, ‘I’ll call you later. I got to go,’ over the phone.

Deep down – deep deep deep down – in Harry’s heart, he’s hoping that Zayn glance back at him again. But Zayn doesn’t. Zayn texts on his phone and ignores Harry like he doesn’t know him at all.

There’s a winter that inhabits Harry’s bone at that moment as he look away from the person he wanted to talk to for what seems like forever.

**

Harry convinces himself that it’s not weird to wait for Zayn outside of Tesco. It’s definitely not because first of all it’s the middle of the day – which in movies, creepy people do it in the middle of the night; secondly, they’re mates – or sort of?

It’s not weird at all. But it’s awkward.

‘Zayn,’ he calls as the bloke heads out of Tesco, carrying a bag of groceries.

The boy didn’t acknowledge him, turns away like Harry’s a mugger about to steal away his wallet and purchases.

‘Zayn,’ he calls again, the plastic full of Maltesers feels too heavy in his hand. He knows Zayn can hear him and he’s very sure that the boy is avoiding him for reasons he doesn’t know.

Or maybe he does.

‘Can we talk?’ he begs, blocking Zayn’s path. For the first time his footing didn’t let him down. ‘Please?’ He gives Zayn his best You-Have-To-Forgive-Me-Because look.

‘What for?’ Zayn asks weakly.

Harry’s prepared to meet a glare or something close to If-Looks-Could-Kill. But he didn’t expect soft hazel eyes like dead candlewick, all burned out.

Zayn stares at him with those tired eyes, waiting.

But Harry can’t figure out what to say – lips gone dry and words stuck in his throat.

Zayn looks at him again, hopeful. Then it dies down into a cloud of disappointment.

‘Why don’t you come to the bar anymore?’ Harry asks instead of _Do you ever think of me? Do you miss me like I miss you?_

‘I have been busy with uni,’ Zayn replies. They both know that it’s a lie.

Harry’s more concerned about the fact that he doesn’t know anything about Zayn. He didn’t know he’s a student, what major he’s taking, where he lives, what time he usually wakes up, how many sugars does he put in his coffee or does he put any sugar at all.

So many things that Harry have forgotten to ask when they both had time. How did he not notice?

‘Where do you study?’ he asks because he can’t help himself.

Zayn looks wary. ‘Saint Martins.’

Something in Harry’s chest tightens with happiness he can’t explain. Zayn’s in one of the University of the Arts London. He feels so proud.

‘Really?’ And he also can’t help the pleased smile in his lips. ‘That’s brilliant.’

His heart sinks when Zayn’s not even mirroring his smile like he should. In the past.

_Past_ that’s a nasty word. It aches in Harry’s thoughts like when he read his American History book and wishes to shield Abraham Lincoln from that bullet.

Silence envelops them.

‘I have to go, _Mr. Styles,_ ’ he says and circles around Harry to pass.

‘Zayn,’ he calls at Zayn’s retreating figure. The boy stops on his tracks. ‘I miss you. At the bar.’

Zayn turns around, facing him. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

He glares at Zayn. How dare Zayn pretend that he knows better of his own feelings. ‘What’s that suppose to mean?’

Zayn shakes his head like Harry did so many times to him when he can’t believe Zayn doesn’t know about Puppy. ‘You’ll find another one to chat with and call at 3 am.’

And Zayn leaves.

**

Harry travels more. More than he already does.

He travels and travels and travels that his body is so knackered when he gets to whatever hotel he’s staying at, he sleeps as he hits the bed.

But sleep is a bitch nowadays, despite how much his body begs. So he sleeps and wakes up at 3am – no longer able to go back to slumber. He wakes up at 3am with itching fingers.

He types a few text. He does. But he doesn’t send them – doesn’t have the courage to.

So the messages sit heavy inside his phone that it grows heavier with each single day.

‘You should audition for _The Walking Dead,_ ’ Joan comments sarcastically but the worry is present in her voice.

Harry chuckles bitterly and drinks his second glass of Jack from Jonathan. ‘Thank you for noticing my effort,’ he replies. He knows that the bags under his eyes are bigger and darker but he stops giving a fuck about it.

He’s fucking depress and let the whole world know about it. They still don’t know though because Harry’s a vampire now who hides in his flat like he’s afraid of going out to get burned in the daylight.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’ Joan deadpans. Always the impatient one.

‘Nothing,’ he lies, it burns his tongue and stings his heart.

Joan quirks up an eyebrow. ‘You’re bankrupting TMZ and _The Sun_ with your lack of social life.’ She sighs when there’s no sign of response from Harry.

He travels but doesn’t go out partying like he usually does and that could really bankrupt TMZ. He practically owns their arse with all the issues and scandal he had given them for over the years.

‘I lost something important,’ he says, staring at Jonathan pouring some weird pink concoction in a cocktail glass.

‘Then go get it,’ Joan prompts him with a knowing smile.

But because Harry’s an idiot who never gives a fuck when he should, he hops on the plane to Singapore. And there overlooking the sea, drinking some expensive wine in one of the roof restaurant of Marina Bay Hotel, Harry stares at the setting sun.

A burst of orange and red and pink fills the sky. He doesn’t see it though.

What he does see is sad hazel eyes.

The beautiful sky didn’t stir him a bit, but the hazel eyes did. It’s been carved behind his eyelids that it’s the only thing he can picture whether his eyes are open or close. It’s annoying and he needs to do something about it.

So much for the 16 hours flight to be wasted on a 4 hour stay in Singapore. But he can’t spend another second with those sad hazel eyes at the back of his mind. It’s unnerving.

**

It’s really shocking what connections can do. So here’s Harry making sure to get rid of the nasty hazel painting in his mind. He parks his car in the kerb as he stares into Allerton House in Fairbank Estate.

Brown bricked house with lots of windows. It’s near Granary Building 1 where Zayn goes to, taking up BA Culture, Criticism, and Curative. He didn’t actually expect him to be taking that major, Zayn should be in modelling.

He decided that it’s not wise to come up of Zayn’s door and go knocking. So he waits outside like the creep he’s becoming because he doesn’t know how to make a grand gesture out of this. It’s not like there has to be an airport scene, right?

So he waits, can’t even decide if he needed flowers for this. What sort will he get Zayn to begin with?

‘Harry?’

He turns to the voice in a speed that could have given him a whiplash, it makes him dizzy.

It’s Zayn, wearing dark skinny jeans and a black leather jacket with a white shirt underneath. And are those black combat boots he’s wearing?

Harry jaws drop literally at the sight of Zayn. He strongly believes that Zayn is a model – or should be a model – but he did not anticipate Zayn to be a fallen god from Olympus. Fuck! Zayn looks so so good in the daylight Harry wants to cry.

Why did he not notice this before?

‘What are you doing here?’ There’s nothing but surprise in his voice. And the _How did you know where I live?_ is hanging in the end even when it’s left unsaid.

It’s maybe too late to say that he got lost or summat. Maybe he should feign finding a flat to rent and ending up here – _exactly_ where Zayn lives. Coincidence! Serendipity! What more words does he need to use as an excuse because his courage can’t take this confrontation.

‘Yeah,’ he says, frantically looking around as if wishing for a hole to hide away and rot for the rest of his lifetime. ‘I… Uhm… You see… I was…’

Very smooth. Very smooth. His words are as good as his sense of balance now. How will he ever live after this?

Zayn just stares at him, incredulous and curious at the same time. It’s a good sign, as long as Zayn’s not running or calling the police and filing a restraining order against Harry. Good sign.

‘Zayn,’ he says, like it’ll give him the valour to form coherent sentences. He mental slaps himself for not making a speech before hand. 16 hours of flight back from Singapore got wasted drinking wine and procrastinating. ‘I have… something…’

‘I don’t have time for bullshit, Harry,’ Zayn snaps.

It’s the first time that Harry had heard Zayn curse or be harsh. Something snapped. Something deep down in Zayn got broken because of Harry. He did this to Zayn, made him a cruel person, a person Zayn will hate himself in the long run.

Zayn’s also surprised at himself. There’s a self loath lurking beneath his skin.

‘Look, it’s not your fault, yeah?’ Zayn’s looking at his boots. ‘I get carried away easily and assume shit that isn’t even there.’ He sighs like he’s letting go of something burdening his chest. ‘I’m sorry for everything.’

Harry should be the one apologising and not Zayn.

‘So please, let’s both move on,’ Zayn begs and Harry’s sure it’s better if Zayn just punched him in the face, it’ll hurt less. ‘I can’t deal with emotions like this. I don’t know how. And I don’t want to.’ He looks up at Harry with tears in his eyes. ‘I’m just so tired of being in love with you and being mad at you at the same time.’

Pure honest feelings, Harry’s been deprived of that. If people tells him they love him it’s either they want something from him – a record deal, to be casted in a show or movie, a contact number of an important person, etc. – or they lie and talk shit behind his back.

Sometimes, the truth doesn’t hurt. Or so Harry believes at the moment as Zayn confess to him.

‘Please, stop stalking or talking to me.’ Zayn looks angry. ‘We’re not friends. We’re strangers with memories. And I don’t want that. I won’t be able to move on if you keep popping up out of nowhere and talking to me like nothing happened, because maybe nothing did happen but you have to be an idiot not to feel anything.’ He pauses and dares Harry to insert a comment. ‘That or I’m really crazy and reading it all wrong. So please, just leave me be. Let me get over you.’

Zayn’s leaving again. For the third time and Harry’s heart orders his brain to make his body move, make him stop Zayn from going away because once is enough, twice is too much, thrice is a poison that could kill a person.

‘What if I don’t want you to move on?’ he says before Zayn can move further away. The words pour out of his lips without consent. It doesn’t even make sense but somehow it does, it’s what his heart whispers.

Zayn looks pissed.

‘You can’t move on from me,’ Harry says firmly. ‘I don’t want you to.’

‘Fuck you!’

Harry smiles wickedly, knowing how to weave this part of the story. ‘I have to top, Zed.’

Zayn can now be compared to a red beet in colour, anger and humiliation mashing up nicely. ‘I’m not one of your fuckboy, Styles.’

‘I know,’ he replies, slowly moving towards Zayn. ‘You’re Zayn Javadd Malik, the gorgeous boy who goes to Saint Martins.’ He smiles, crowding Zayn’s personal space like he had for so many times before even when Zayn’s behind the bar. Slowly, like Zayn’s made of crystal, he touches the tip of his point finger to the back of Zayn’s hand. ‘The person who listens to my boring stories, who answers my call at 3am.’

Zayn glances at their hands.

‘You’re the first person I wanted to call when I arrived safely at Italy last week, the first one I want to talk and to see when I arrive from my trips,’ he slowly treads their hands together, ‘the reason why I’m in London most of the time, the person who believes in me even when the world tells me otherwise. I’m so sorry for hurting you. I didn’t mean to.’

‘Harry –’

He cuts Zayn off with a kiss, pours out everything he has to say into it. Lips carving sentences Harry can’t say out loud into Zayn’s. It’s chaste and sweet and natural like they’ve been doing it for a long time.

He imagines it to be better than the others he had given without much thought to people whose names he can’t remember anymore. And it is better, it’s like tasting the sunsets that he’d love to see from the different parts of the world that his feet takes him. But more importantly, the thrill of being in a new place that had always run under his skin is what he feels in this kiss and he didn’t know it’s possible to find every bit of paradise on Earth from someone else’s lips.

And just how many times had he fantasised those lips? Not enough to prepare him for the nectar goodness that leaves him breathless and wanting for more.

Harry pulls away, forehead leaning on Zayn’s. ‘And also, you’re the person that I’ve been waiting my whole life that I got too blind to see because I thought you’d never come.’

Zayn smiles, the kind he gives only to Harry. He has a name for it now, _You’re an idiot but I’d still love you and kiss you, nonetheless_ , he’ll ask Zayn later if that could be it.

‘I'm so glad to be finally be found,’ he says and kisses the tip of Zayn’s nose, because finally, this is where he can catch his breath and marvel at the beauty around him without having to go somewhere.

 

_Fin._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.   
> Come say Hi on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hopelessly-inzayn) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/gwynxzcullen).  
> You know the drill! xoxo


End file.
